


Let Me Taste the Meaning of Sublime

by MrsNoggin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley needs a hug, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Idiots in Love, Inexperienced Aziraphale, M/M, Oral Sex, Plush Angel, Smut, minor comeplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 15:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19321357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/pseuds/MrsNoggin
Summary: It would appear Aziraphale has rather a thing for being shoved into walls.It would appear Crowley is just a huge messy puddle of feelings.No worries; it's all good.





	Let Me Taste the Meaning of Sublime

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by [ HiddenLacuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna)
> 
> Thanks to [ noadventureshere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noadventureshere/) for inspiration and poetry - 
> 
> “Let me breathe You in,  
> Let me taste the meaning of sublime;  
> Let my soul mingle with You,  
> Let me be one with divine!”  
> ― Neelam Saxena Chandra

It would appear Aziraphale has rather a _thing_ for being shoved into walls. Crowley voices this aloud, curiously, pressed up against him at the back of the bookshop, reptilian eyes unblinking and greedily drinking in the reactions of the man/angel/being currently squashed beside a bookshelf. They’d been bickering, arguing even, but nothing too serious. In fact, Crowley can’t even remember what it was even about; something to do with good and bad, what they should be doing or not doing, now the world wasn’t ending, or thinking of ending, any time soon. Aziraphale may have mentioned something (again) about Crowley being not all that bad, and the reflexive panic that had shot through the demon at the very _idea_ being voiced _out loud_ had sprung him up from his chair, draining the alcohol from both of their systems, and marching the angel back into an overcrowded shelf.

Crowley’s teeth are bared, the tip of his nose brushing a soft, pink-blushed cheek and he can smell… he can smell desire.

It’s new. There’s always been affection, painfully obvious, clear in the air between them.  Amusement is an almost constant, occasionally smattered with annoyance. Sometimes there is regret, when Aziraphale is looking reluctantly away, or moving a step apart when they have been drawn too close. Crowley has always written that off as Aziraphale’s regret that the demon can’t be something other than who, or what, he is, something better, something to be loved.

But desire, that is new.

Well, not generally new; he’s inspired desire before. It’s his job, let’s be honest. And he’s very good. Though, it does start to get so-so, a bit _boring_ , after a while. Not this time, this desire is delicious. Not just because it’s for him, or because it comes from an angel (tempting an angel, oh yes, he is _very_ good), but because it is Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who Crowley has loved and desired and regretted for millennia. It had taken him several centuries to stop wondering if his feelings would ever be returned, but now, he’s sort of entertaining the idea of wondering again. Maybe if he’d been letting himself wonder these last 5,500 years, he wouldn’t have missed this development. Because affection, amusement, annoyance, regret, _desire_ … mix them up and feel them for thousands of years and that might come quite close to another sort of feeling. Really. Mightn’t it?

“I, er, rather, that is, I…” Aziraphale closes his eyes for strength, taking a deep breath. “It’s more to do with _who_ is doing it, than where. I’d say, being pressed against anything, by or with… somebody who I… yes well. This is getting rather awkward now, isn’t it?”

“Not at all, Aziraphale,” Crowley hisses, trailing his nose upwards to let pale golden hair tickle at him, breathing in want-scented air like a drowning man. “Do continue.”

“Would you mind…?” He waves a hand, as if to gesture moving away.

“Hmmm?”

“I’d feel happier discussing this if I could… breathe and move and… you know, that sort of thing.”

“I’m quite happy lissstening here.” Crowley grits his teeth, his tongue flicking at the back of them, in his need to scent the air. Again. More. It smells, it tastes divine. He pushes his hips forward carefully, though it may appear otherwise, possibly searching for anything that might signal a mirroring of his own body’s betrayal. He’d release him if there was true unease on Aziraphale’s face, rather than whatever it is he sees there now. As if he needs to, as if Aziraphale couldn’t just fling him across the room with a mild inkling and a little meaning.

“Oh, um, I really had better…” Aziraphale opens his eyes, and quite how they can be cold, icy, grey and blue and still burning hot at the same time is an ineffable mystery all of its own. “Alright.”

There is a pulse of heat low in Crowley’s abdomen, almost a thump, sizzling outwards and burning. Heartburn, it must be; an after-effect of removing all that wine, perhaps. Do you get heartburn there? Does he even get heartburn at all?

“Crowley?”

“Angel?”

“Kiss me.”

It’s a demand, or a command. And Crowley obeys immediately, as if he could ever do anything else for this man. He leans down the last couple of inches and kisses him, gently, a slow caress of lips on lips. So light and dry it tickles and tingles. It’s all he can allow for now, anything more would open him up, too wide, too vulnerable. Except, except Aziraphale draws his own arms in, stroking and then softly cradling Crowley’s sharp jaw, tucking his fingertips into the corner of bone there under where his face joins his ear and pulls him further in. Squashes their mouths together, moves his lips over Crowley’s, sucks lightly and releases, repeats at a slightly different angle, pulls tenderly at the demon’s bottom lip, dabs at it with the tip of his tongue.

Oh.

It turns hot and wet in moments, Crowley’s hands moving from restraint to embrace. He crowds further forward, chest to chest and hips to hips. Strong hands grasp at him, one still at his neck, the other at his waist, scrumpling adorably at his black shirt. Every second builds into something more, aching deep in Crowley’s belly, flowing down into his groin, and up into his chest. Aziraphale is breathing hard when they break apart, flushed, panting.

“How long?” Aziraphale asks, finally, looking him over, studying his face.

Crowley doesn’t bother asking what he’s talking about. He’s lost. They both know. “Every second of every minute I’ve ever known you.”

“You dramatic old fool.” Aziraphale smiles at him, bright and open, eyes twinkling magically and creased at the corners.

Crowley can’t keep eye contact, it’s too much. He ducks his head, nuzzling at the soft chin in front of him. He can’t go too fast, he always goes too fast. Too fast, ha, you can’t get much slower than he’s been going, jeez. He needs Aziraphale like he needs air. Well, more than he needs air. He can live without air, for a while. A while without Aziraphale leaves him withered, like a thirsty plant, crispy and temperamental. It’s only gotten worse over the years - rather than being apart for decades at a time, he now struggles to stay away for more than a couple of weeks. What has he become?

The angelic hair is just as soft as it always has been, like silk between his fingers. It’s not the first time he’s touched it, but it’s the first time he’s felt allowed to. He digs his fingers into it, using it to tip Aziraphale’s head back so he can access his neck, which he kisses, softly, grazing his teeth over his Adam’s Apple (stupid name, Adam had barely anything to do with that apple and if it had got stuck in his throat like that, casting out would have been a non-issue; he’d just be dead).

“Crowley, my dear.” Aziraphale shivers, biting at his own puffy lip.

 He groans at the sight. He’s so fucked. Sod the slowing down idea. “Can I have you, Angel?”

 

* * *

 

The bed is dusty, but only for a second, before Aziraphale gives a flustered sort of snicker and waves an arm to clean it. Crowley is leading him into the room, holding his hand and wishing his own wasn’t sweating, because that’s not attractive. The lights are low, romantic, and he doesn’t know whose doing that is, but it’s nice. There is a quilt over the bed and it plomps nicely when he lays Aziraphale down onto it, climbing over him to kiss at his neck some more. It’s such a good neck, soft and hard at the same time, smooth to rasp his stubble against, pinking up nicely. From the corner of his eye, he sees the angel gripping at the cotton of the covers beneath him, and reaches down to retrieve his hand again.

“I’ve no idea what I’m doing.” Aziraphale stutters, moaning slightly as Crowley slides his whole body down along him, clothes catching and scratching against each other.

“Don’t worry, I have.”

He frowns. “That’s… not helpful.”

Crowley hums, he can see that point, but there’s not much he can do about it now. He kneels up, one leg either side of Aziraphale’s hips. He reaches out to pull free the bow tie, unbutton the waistcoat, the shirt, leans forwards to nuzzle into the soft belly exposed when he pushes up the cotton vest underneath the opened clothes. “Let me,” he begs, kissing at downy fuzz under Aziraphale’s navel, releasing cufflinks blindly as he goes. He takes the tiny metal fasteners in his hand and places them carefully on the bedside table. His words are broken and interspersed with tiny kisses. “Let me show you. I want to show you how, I want to.”

His hands are shaking and he makes them stop that immediately. He helps remove the clothes he’s opened, sitting his… lover (lover?!) up to kiss him while he wrestles with sleeves for him. The kissing, oh hell, the kissing. There are tongues and teeth involved now, and Crowley gives over a little of his concentration to keep his own tongue and teeth in check and… un-demonic. It would not do to remind Aziraphale exactly what he is allowing to touch him.

“Don’t,” gasps Aziraphale, and Crowley flies back, pulling his hands away from newly naked torso and shuffling as far back as he can without ending up in a heap on the floor. The heat in his stomach has plummeted to ice, shivering goose-bumps up his arms. What has he done? Why does he always do something? He needs to stop _doing things_.

But Aziraphale’s face is gentle and kind and he pulls him back down with a smile. “Not that,” he assures him, tugging him back by the neck of his t-shirt to plant a smacking kiss on his mouth. “Keep doing that. I meant don’t hold back like that. I felt you hide away, I felt your energy… your power shrink down. If I’m doing this, with you, we’re doing it properly, _all_ of us.”

Crowley blinks, which feels weird, always does a bit. A bit like he does it wrong, in slow motion maybe, like he has a millisecond of sleep and has to wake up again each time he does it. He sits back up while he tries to find his words. “But, I’m… I’m not like you, Aszziraphale.”

“Precisely the point, my dear. I’m not in love with myself.”

Oh G—, shit. Oh wow. Oh everything. He’s sort of frozen, which makes Aziraphale giggle, wrinkling his nose charmingly.

“I’ll just give you a minute there, my love.” Aziraphale is mocking him, but… lovingly. When he sees Crowley come back into the moment, he gives him that mischievous sparkling grin that the demon so adores, and grabs him dramatically around the collar. He yanks him down into a kiss, a full-on, full-bodied kiss, pausing only to add, “Now, give me _everything_.”

Crowley groans into his open mouth, biting at his lips with slightly sharper teeth and licking into his mouth with a thin forked tongue, flickering to taste him. They jointly untangle him from his black jacket, wrenching it down his arms roughly, and he chucks it away carelessly, hearing it thunk heavily onto the floor somewhere behind him. He’s already started on his t-shirt, he wants to rub up against Aziraphale, to feel skin on his skin and maybe, just a little, to leave his own scent behind all over him. It appeals to some deep part of Crowley, and Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind, allowing him pin their chests together, letting Crowley scrape his rough chin over lightly freckled shoulders like a giant, languid cat. In fact, the angel strokes at his hair while he does it, his own head tipped back in pleasure, mouth open on a long, deep moan when Crowley licks and bites at his nipples. Angels don’t need nipples. Crowley likes them. He likes these a lot; they taste of heaven and sin and peak like tiny little candied sweets in his mouth, pulling small whimpers from the chest underneath them when he grips them gently in his teeth and tugs.

How is this real? How is this happening? How does he have this beautiful, perfect creature half-naked in a bed and writhing beneath him? It shouldn’t be allowed. Well, it’s probably not allowed, if he’s honest. So he’s going to make the most of it while he can, before he is smote (smited? smit? smitten? He’ll ask Aziraphale later) or whatever they’re going to do to him. He’s going to show Aziraphale precisely what they can do together, apart from save the world, because to be fair, they did that last week.

 

* * *

 

Crowley has dark purple fingernails today. He enjoys the different colours he can decorate them with, and these look rather stunning, he must admit. The tone of them is just beautiful beside the pale, un-sun-kissed skin that’s been hidden from him since the days they didn’t bother covering quite so much. Those were good days. A newly-in-love, slightly lecherous Crowley had enjoyed the large flashes of skin and taken advantage of the loosely draped clothing to satisfy his lust, somewhat. Now, he takes his time cruising his hands up the naked body beneath him, digging his fingers into the fine layer of podge around Aziraphale’s hips, up his sides. He tips the angle, letting his nails scratch and trail back down the centre of the angel’s chest, leaving pink tracks.

Today, Aziraphale has a penis, so Crowley happily trails his fingers along it, and wraps his grip loosely around it. He squeezes gently.

“Ooh, alright, yes, that is nice.” Aziraphale’s arm goes up over his head, elbow hiding his eyes and hand grasping the pillow.

“Have you really… never… at all?” Perhaps not the best question to ask, just in case it’s not something he wants to hear. _‘Oh yes, that time you were asleep and I got lonely and joined that gentlemen’s club and learned the gavotte, I really rather learned several other things too.’_ However unlikely that is, Crowley thinks he might just burn up with rage and jealousy if he tolerates that idea anymore, so he shakes his head. “No, don’t answer that.”

He can’t help it, he can’t stay away, and he lies down beside him on the mattress, leaving one leg crooked over Aziraphale’s thighs. He leaves his hand where it is, drifting ever so slowly up and down, but moves his mouth to breathe hotly into Aziraphale’s ear. He watches him carefully to absorb every millisecond of reaction, and shifts his thumb around to nudge at the fleshy head of his cock, sliding the tip up to prod lightly at the slit there. He is not disappointed.

The angel’s back arches, curving his chest up from the bed. “Oh, g-… good g-… gracious, Crowley.”

“Just you wait, my angel. There’ssssso much more.”

There is, but this might do for now. It wouldn’t be good to… overload him. Full on debauchery can be exhausting for both (or all) parties. So he doesn’t, he just tickles at Aziraphale’s earlobe with his tongue and keeps his hand moving, with a small fondle of his thumb in that friendly slit every now and then for good measure.

“Are you ok?” Crowley asks carefully. He releases cock to reach down for balls. They are hot when he cups them, gives them a little roll in his hand. He feels them twitch upwards when Aziraphale lets out a punch of breath. Crowley shuffles his leg up, using his knee to replace his hand so he can curl it back around Aziraphale’s (rather handsome) penis. Oh, it is lovely. He squeezes and rubs again, just enough to shift the skin over the hard tissue underneath. His new position has the added benefit of pressing his own erection into the soft flesh of Aziraphale’s thigh, which he takes advantage of with a lazy roll of his hips to graze his foreskin up and down. “Do you want anything else?”

“Could you, I mean, could we,” Aziraphale takes a long, deep breath, clearly trying to bring order back to his mind. It makes Crowley grin into his shoulder. He takes the opportunity to bite it. Delicious. Aziraphale chuckles, moans, tips his head further back. “I liked feeling you on top of me, could we do that again? Please?”

Before he’s even finished asking, Crowley is lying over him, his leg still between Aziraphale’s, his hands sliding under his shoulders so he can prop himself on his elbows. “Anything.”

“Kiss me.”

Crowley is really coming to like this command. Aziraphale has to move his arm from his face to allow him access, and he wraps it up and around Crowley’s shoulder, over his back, and the other follows and it’s so much like a hug that Crowley almost can’t bear it. He thrusts forward as he kisses, sinking his lips into lips and his hips into hips. Their cocks align, slick with sweat and precome and magic and who knows what, but it feels good when they move together, pressed between their bellies. There’s not quite enough friction for him, but Aziraphale is faring quite nicely, so it would seem, whining freely into their kiss, the odd “uhh” being fed into Crowley’s mouth. And Crowley is never the sort to turn down a bit of frottage.

“Is it always like this?” Aziraphale pants, as Crowley moves to mouth at his neck, smoothing his lips up and down the straining tendons there, slipping his tongue out to taste the moisture gathering.

Crowley closes his eyes to take a breath and admit, “No, love, not like this.”

Nothing like _this_. Not so intense, nor powerful, nowhere near as perfect. Crowley feels completely involved; no moments of wandering thoughts, or plans for what’s going to happen next, no joy of successful temptation or euphoria of triumph over someone. He’s not chasing pleasure or making sure he looks sexy, seductive, good. He can barely think, he’s just feeling. A huge messy puddle of feelings.

He senses the urgency growing in Aziraphale, the light at the end, so to speak. Hears the grunts becoming ‘oh’s of wonder. Crowley coaxes him towards it, humming encouragement, kissing reassurance into his skin. He adjusts their dance, lengthening the forward slide, but speeding up the backwards. The glorious being beneath him is arching, digging his heels into the sheets, gasping Crowley’s name like a desperate prayer, like worship.

“That’s it, angel, yes.” Crowley can hardly breathe. His own pleasure has kicked up with the new gear, but that’s not it. It’s not building in his balls, or his pelvis, or his… anything down there — it’s in his chest, hot and growing.

Aziraphale shoves a hand into Crowley’s hair, fingers grasping at the auburn tufts, tugging and undulating with the movements of his body. It is the most spectacular sensation, the shockwaves travelling down his back, sparking into the base of his spine.

“That’sss it,” Crowley hisses, hot in his ear, guiding him, urging him through.

“Crowley. Ohhh!”

“Chase it, chase it, push it higher...” He waits until he feels Aziraphale tense up beneath him, the first tremor of his muscles and hiccup of his breath. “Now let it go. Ohhh, yesssss. My angel.”

Aziraphale is calling out, shuddering, his hips bucking. It doesn’t stop, or slow after a few seconds; it increases, until he is crying Crowley’s name, with tears eeking out from the precious laughter lines at the corners of his eyes. His hand in Crowley’s hair is tight, pulling too hard, hard enough to jolt heat into his core, the sizzle of pain exquisite. The flood of come is hot too, like fresh bathwater, spurting out between them and making everything a bit more slippery. Crowley slows his movements before his partner reaches the over-sensitive stage, his own erection clinging regretfully  to the sticky skin until the last possible moment.

Finally, exhaustedly, Aziraphale relaxes back into the bed, his limbs flopping, chest heaving. He is rubbing his tongue against the roof of his mouth, the same way he does after too much wine, or the removal of it. Crowley reaches out a hand to retrieve a glass of water from nowhere, helps him sit up and sip from it, unable to stop touching him, sweeping mussed white curls from his damp forehead and biting his own lips to stop himself from just kissing and kissing and kissing.

“I see what all the fuss is about now.” Aziraphale collapses back again, letting Crowley have the last mouthful of water and then simply chuck the glass back into nothingness. He looks up at him, still sat up, his always eager, ever so blue eyes flicking down Crowley’s unashamed nakedness. He takes in the lightly quivering muscles, the flat stomach and lean body, the very, very erect cock. “Darling, you are _glorious_.”

Crowley gives him a cocky grin, as if to say “I know”.

“I would very much like to put that in my mouth.”

He chokes, Crowley actually chokes a little, on absolutely nothing but shock.

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale doesn’t choke though, he had slid his way capably down Crowley’s newly reclined form, bitten at the muscles of his thighs and made a delighted sound when the demon spread shaking legs for him to wriggle between.

“Foreskin, how interesting.” Aziraphale nuzzles his pointed nose into the heat of Crowley’s balls. “Again though, I have no idea what I’m doing here at all. You’re going to have to teach me, talk me through it, whisper dirty thoughts and sweet nothings to me while you stroke at my hair.”

Crowley laughs to the ceiling. How does he know? How does this wonderful creature just completely understand what Crowley wants to do to him?

“Ok, angel. Go slow, because I’m about to shoot off all over your face.”

Aziraphale crooks an impressed-looking eyebrow and gives a pleased little wiggle. “Well, that sounds rather fantastic. How do I make you do that?”

Crowley slips a hand down to hold the base of his cock, keep it steady while Aziraphale smears kisses up the length of it. He breathes in long and deep, feeling the air almost burning like ice in his lungs. “That’s it. Just like that, ungh, now, just, a little, tongue— oh yes, sweetheart.”

A damn quick learner, Aziraphale is, always has been. He licks wetly around the head, probing his tongue into the slick slit there, pushing back the last clinging remains of foreskin with his lips and sucking the whole head into his mouth like he does a strawberry, though, thankfully, with less teeth involved.  Crowley is cruising on the edge already, the tight heat in his loins slithering about like a snake, the spirit of his wings quivering under the muscles in his back. He arches his neck back until his chest starts to rise, lets a long lazy growl rumble through him. He remembers what Aziraphale asked of him, and steers his free hand down to the angel’s head, threading his fingers through those silken curls, stroking his thumb over the high forehead.

Aziraphale releases him, still staring down with a look of wonder lighting up his eyes. “How do humans manage to get anything done?”

Crowley doesn’t reply, because right now he can’t comprehend the idea of getting _anything_ done, of not simply doing this forever. He steers his erection down towards Aziraphale and watches it feed slowly back into his happily open mouth. It’s heaven in there, warm and wet and cushiony soft, a light graze of sharp teeth and friction from the roof of his mouth when Crowley rubs the tip of his dick upwards. It gives him the same comfortable bubbling sensation in his stomach as heaven did too, like a delicious type of hunger - he remembers that feeling from _before_.

“Angel,” he groans. Aziraphale hums a little reply and it’s good, very good. He’s going to come soon. “Move your tongue. Yesss like that. You’re ssso good so good to me so good. And sssuck a little more oh yesssss.” His words fail him then, becoming eager little exclamations. He uses the hand in Aziraphale’s white golden hair to guide him, up and down, just a little, not too much, must be careful, must be gentle. Aziraphale appears to love it though, moaning headily, mouth full and eyelids heavy. Maybe later Crowley will teach him how to fuck his face, swallow that angel cock deep down in his throat and take it and take it until he can’t even talk anymore. Yes, that will be very nice indeed. He feels a thrill zap through him, sudden and electric.

“I’m, hang on, wait wait I’m— ” he warns him, and Aziraphale is evidently listening, because his eyes are wide with concern and he begins to pull off. Crowley’s pleasure is building in his balls, his heart pounding, and he feels his cock start to pulse and twitch. He holds it back as long as he can, riding the high, but then uses the hand around the base of his prick to jerk up and down and feels the release kick in, the overpowering overflow of sensation pumping in his groin, spreading up over his body and he watches in absolute rapture as his come erupts, shooting out over Aziraphale’s face, splattering his chin, his pink cheeks. He points it purposefully, wiping the head of his cock to paint Aziraphale’s lips, squeezing out the last ooze to smear like lipstick, grimacing and gritting his teeth at the absolute beauty of the image. Corrupted angel, naked, smiling lopsidedly up to him with love and desire in his eyes, and covered in his come. Transcendent.

Aziraphale pokes the tip of his tongue out to taste and Crowley cannot not laugh at the wrinkle of his nose in response.

“Nah, angel, it’s not great.” He agrees, and snaps his fingers to clear the mess from over the pair of them.  

 

* * *

 

They sleep together that night. Well, one of them sleeps. Crowley stirs a couple of times, waking once to find the bedside lamp on, but Aziraphale still lying beside him, reading a paperback novel which is clearly far from a classic. It’s tat. Romantic trash. Crowley grins sleepily at the sight and closes his eyes again. The next time the lamp is still on, but the book is gone. The angel is on his side, facing Crowley and he smiles softly, before reaching out a gentle angelic hand and using gentle fingertips to close Crowley’s eyelids again. Crowley obeys and sleeps.

The next time he wakes, he is alone.

A pang of panic vibrates and then explodes in his stomach and he sits bolt upright. The bed beside him is cool, the pillow plumped back to shape. Crowley looks at his watch (which appears upon demand) and finds it nearly lunchtime. Well, he couldn’t expect the angel to sit around all day and wait for him to wake up, could he? Or that’s what he tells himself he’s thinking. What he’s really thinking is “shit shit shitshitshit I fucked up I fucked up.”

What if there’s regret, again. What if Aziraphale is distraught and disgusted at the thought of what he’s done. Letting a demon taint him, sully him, _ruin_ him, an angel…

Angels… What if they… No. Surely, with the steps they have taken, nobody particularly cares what they’re getting up to right now. And they wouldn’t have left Crowley sleeping when they could have taken him too… would they?  What if they found out what the pair of them had got up to last night? Has Crowley doomed Aziraphale forever? Is Aziraphale _fallen_?

The floor is strangely warm when the soles of his bare feet hit it, which is uncomfortable, because he’s used to the cold floors of his own flat. He manages to pause long enough to pick up his jeans, neatly folded on the dresser, and wriggle his way into them as he stumbles out into the hallway, bashing his shoulder on the doorframe and crashing into the opposite wall.

He’s about to call out when he realises he really shouldn’t. What if they are still here? What if Aziraphale is happily covering up the fact that he gave a demon some fantastic head last night and shared a bed with him and Crowley comes blundering in, shouting. He pauses at the top of the stairs and listens. Nope. Nothing. He closes his eyes and tries to sense any other sources of energy in the building. There is one. And it’s familiar.

“Aziraphale?” He whisper-shouts.

Silence. And then a blessed noise.

“I’m downstairs, darling.”

Crowley’s legs nearly give out in relief and he slumps against the wall, sliding down until his arse hits the top tread. The door below him opens and a golden head pops through.

“What the dickens are you doing there, like that, all…” Aziraphale flaps a hand up and down, and starts up the stairs in concern.

Crowley makes himself shrug carelessly, knocking his head back into the plasterwork behind him. “I often—”

“Don’t lie to me, demon; I’m an angel, I can tell.” Aziraphale teases, and plops himself down on the step below him. His brow furrows in worry. “Are you alright?”

“I just. I—” Crowley doesn’t even know what he’s trying to stop himself from saying. So he shakes his head and says nothing. Stares at the banister.

“Is it… is it last night? I mean, I know we had sobered up beforehand, but really, we had imbibed quite freely for quite some time, and perhaps you were still partially under the influence and made a bad decision or two…” Aziraphale clears his throat and hurries on, “And that’s nothing we haven’t all done at some point, I’m sure. So, if you like, we could—”

“No, we could _not_!” Crowley is in his face, spitting and outraged and hurt, “I did not wait for 6,000 years to have you write that off as some drunken shenanigan. We’ve done many a silly thing drunk, but that… I can not go back again, watching and waiting and waiting and waiting. Please, please don’t.”

Aziraphale catches Crowley’s enraged and slightly heartbroken face in his cool hands. Leans their foreheads together. “Oh, my love. I would never…”   

Crowley kisses him, desperately. He clutches at shirtsleeves and somehow manages to heave Aziraphale up onto his knees and in between his own legs. It makes the angel taller than him, for the first time since… he can’t remember, but he’s pretty sure at least once he’s had a body where he has to look up into Aziraphale’s eyes.

“As much as I’d like to continue this,” Aziraphale says between kisses, “I had no idea how long you’d be asleep, so the shop is open downstairs, and you are nowhere near respectable at this current moment, so if, if, we—”

He stutters to a stop as Crowley leans back on his hands, as if to show off entirely how un-respectable he really is, opening his legs wider and shifting back a little to slide his still-open jeans down a couple of inches. He smirks at the flicking gaze of the angel, caught between Crowley’s damp mouth, his bare torso, the jut of his hipbones, the shadow of his pubic hair just visible at the open zip. The demon tips his chin up, rolling his head and stretching out his neck.

“You are indecent.” Aziraphale scolds rather half-heartedly.

“Yee-ess?” Crowley licks at his own teeth, a slow swipe of tongue.

“And _insatiable_.” He doesn’t look anything but pleased.

“And anything else?”

“I love you.”

Crowley grins. “I love you too.” Oh chr—crikey. It’s so good to be able to say that.

“I know.”

“Shut the shop, angel.”

“I. I have customers.” It’s that incredulous tone he gets when he knows he’s talking rubbish.

Crowley tips back even further, resting on his elbows. He can see the twinkle of want in Aziraphale’s eyes, the lusty dilation of his pupils. “No you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” Aziraphale agrees, raising a hand to wave in the vague direction of the shop downstairs. The bolt shoots across with a clatter.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come join me for further discourse on [ Twitter.](https://twitter.com/KatNoggin)
> 
> Or enable my caffeine addiction. It fuels my writerly soul and makes my heart sing.
> 
> Or comments and kudos are what makes my world go round. Please and thank you.


End file.
